


Power Known Not

by Magi_Silverwolf



Series: Power Known Not [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AO3 exclusive, Deathly Hallows AU, Gen, House Elves, Neo-Paganism, Paganism, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 16:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9081253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magi_Silverwolf/pseuds/Magi_Silverwolf
Summary: Harry's scar was from Voldemort's curse. Everyone said that. Then Harry found the boxes in the attic, with pictures of him with his parents...and the scar. What followed this discovery was not a series of rash decisions leading to a long camping trip. It was a more cautious and questioning Harry, and lead to a very different year with a very different end to the Second War.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.  
> Warning: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.  
> Author’s Note: This story was originally posted as part of a braided narrative with the events of Circle of Runes. On my FFN account, it is still posted that way. This presentation is an AO3 exclusive. It is just the Harry scenes.

-= LP =-

Power Known Not

-= LP =-

“It was just life, which is often brutally random and unfair, and that’s simply how it goes sometimes.”

– Heather McManamy

-= LP =-

“Harry? Are you alright?”

 

Hermione Granger was worried. Harry had been sorting through boxes from the attic of Grimmauld Place. It was more for something to do. They had exhausted all possible ideas for research shortly after making peace with Kreacher over that locket. How could they find anything with nothing to go on, after all? When Harry had announced that it was time to sort the attic, Hermione had decided to help out. Harry had been quiet for the last half hour however. She had checked on him, only to see him looking through pictures and smiling softly. She was more than willing to leave him to it until she heard the pictures hitting the ground. The brunette had looked over to see that Harry was paler than normal.

 

“Harry? What’s wrong?” Hermione took a hold of his arms and shook him gently. When he still didn’t respond, she moved her hands to his cheeks and forced his face up. She couldn’t make his eyes focus on hers. He was staring off into the distance. “Harry? Harry, look at me, _please_.” Finally, those green eyes came back to life and focused on her.

 

“Hermione?”

 

Hermione did what any self-respecting young lady dealing with things that were much too stressful for her would do. She gave a hiccupping sob of relief and hugged him. Perplexed about her reaction, Harry repeated her name again and hugged her back. He may have muttered the phrase ‘girls are mental’, but Hermione was willing to ignore it in favor of getting her breathing back under control. As quick as her breakdown started, she pulled back and slugged him in the arm.

 

“Don’t scare me like that,” she scolded. It might have been more commanding if her nose wasn’t stuffy and her voice clogged with the remains of her tears. Harry had the grace to look chagrined. She determinedly swiped at her cheeks to banish the moist evidence of her breakdown. “Now, what’s wrong?”

 

“Why does something have to be wrong?”

 

“ _Harry.”_

 

“Alright, fine,” he muttered, but instead of answering the question, he bent down to pick up the stack of pictures he had dropped. Hermione grew puzzled, but Harry usually explained things when he finally agreed to do so. She could wait a few minutes. After gathering the pictures, he thrust them at his friend. She took them without really thinking about it. “Look at them,” he then commanded.

 

And she did.

 

The pictures were of a small raven-haired child. Child was a misnomer as the boy in the pictures couldn’t be more than a year old on the outside. Hermione flipped through them and watched the boy take a few shaky steps before falling on a diapered rump, riding a tiny broom, gnawing on the ear of stuffed dog, standing on the stomach of a man who she recognized from Harry’s photo album as James… It was not until the picture of a grinning Lily making the toddler wave at the camera that Hermione realized that the toddler had to be Harry. What was strange, however, was the fact that the Harry in the pictures had the same thin scar etched upon his forehead as the one the Harry before her did. She raised her eyes to meet Harry’s once more.

 

“But—but— _how_? Everyone knows that it’s a curse scar—Dumbledore said it was!”

 

“I don’t know, Hermione...but I want to find out.”

 

 -= LP =-

 

The attic had a virtual treasure trove of things. It appeared that instead of nothing of his parents left, there were six large trunks and several more boxes all full of books, papers, pictures, and smallish keepsakes. To Harry, starved for knowledge of his parents as he was, the find was a feast. How could Sirius not have shared this with him?

 

“Perhaps he forgot, Harry,” Hermione had said when he had posed the question to her. She slid one finger into the thick tome that she had been reading, preserving her place while she refocused her attention to answering Harry’s question. Harry was fairly certain that the book was on that came from one of the boxes in the attic rather than the sanitized library. For some reason that he was not willing to analyze—alright, he’d admit it: _brood_ over—this fact did not annoy him as much as it would have if it had been someone else. Further reflection on his part was cut short by Hermione continuing. “Long term exposure to dementors can have that effect. He was in Azkaban for almost twelve years. That does qualify as long term.”

 

Her explanation made sense, but the question continued to nag at him. Perhaps it was only because there was not much to distract him from the topic. Except for chess games with Ron (all of which Harry lost spectacularly to no surprise despite Hermione’s claim that he _was_ getting better), Harry spent most of his time looking through the attic items or brooding. Hermione, of course, insisted that a bit of each day be spent in study. Kreacher was rarely seen except late at night due to his stalking of Umbridge. Harry took to staying up late just to have a snatched visit with the surprisingly pleasant elf...well, at least comparably pleasant. (Perhaps Hermione was on to something with the better treatment idea?) As much as Harry cared for both of his best friends, after several weeks with only them, and the occasional mad house elf, to talk to he was ready for a distraction.

 

Fate provided just that one night in September.

 

The trio of friends was in the library. Both Harry and Hermione were reading unfriendly-looking tomes from the attic. Ron was working his way grudgingly through an essay that Hermione had assigned them all a few days before. Harry had already finished it that night before while keeping watch for Kreacher. At the first sound of Dumbledore’s voice, all three heads had snapped up. Books forgotten and instinctively armed, they made their way to the entry hall to be faced with the well-cloaked form of a familiar werewolf. After the shade of the Headmaster had been dealt with, Lupin found himself staring down three wands.

 

He did not draw his in return. Carefully, he raised his hands in the air by his head. His hazel eyes were suspiciously bright when they met Harry’s. The pale skin of the claw scars across his face was whiter than normal, standing out against his tan. He looked a bit desperate to Harry, though the seventeen-year-old could not put his finger on what exactly gave him that impression.

 

“What was my grade on the Red Cap essay?” Hermione questioned. The Ministry did have a good idea from time to time after all. If a third year could brew Polyjuice successfully, who knew who else can?

 

“Blimey, Hermione, how would anyone remember _that_?” Ron protested while the actual person in question let out a weak chuckle. _‘You know, Ron may have a point—‘_

 

“Because she spent a half an hour in my office arguing over it,” Lupin answered, his voice raspy as if he had been yelling recently. Harry felt his jaw tighten at the thought and his feeling of something being off grew. “I don’t think I ever truly convinced her that she deserved that ‘E’. She was most adamant about its quality.”

 

Silence reigned between the foursome for a moment before wands were lowered and they made their way to the abandoned library. Hermione and Ron resume their spots, though they refrained from picking back up their activities. Harry stood facing the doorway that Lupin was lingering in, one hand resting on the wingback chair in which he had been sitting prior to the ex-professor’s arrival. Lupin was picking at a loose string from his cloak. ‘ _Nervous_ ,’ Harry’s mind practically screamed at him.

 

“So…”

 

Harry and Lupin looked at each other as they both attempted to speak. Ron was staring at his essay with his quill in hand. It did not fool Harry, but he did appreciate the effort that the youngest Weasley male was putting into the appearance of not listening. Hermione was watching them closely, however. The fingers of her left hand traced some idle design on the blank front of her book while her right hand was wrapped tightly around the handle of her wand. The witch was careful to keep that hand tuck close to her side. Harry only saw it because of his angle. Reading those books from the attic must be making him paranoid if he was thinking that Lupin was a potential threat.

 

“How’s Tonks?” Harry asked in an effort worthy of the Dursleys to appear normal. Lupin winced as if pained at the thought. Assuming he understood, Harry rushed onward, his mouth moving just as fast as his thoughts. “I guess she wouldn’t be ‘Tonks’ any more, would she—being married and all. Congrats, by the way, on your nuptials. I’m sure that Sirius would have been as pleased as punch that you finally settled down. So how is—you know, it would be better if I knew what to call her...”

 

“Dora,” Lupin answered hoarsely. That string was under attack again as the werewolf’s hands began to pluck at it in his nervousness. His eyes, focused as they were on the floor, seemed to have too much gold to Harry. The Gryffindor dismissed it as the angle the light was hitting them. “She is—will be fine. She’s pregnant.”

 

“That’s great,” Harry replied, perhaps too brightly from the pained look that crossed Lupin’s face again. Perhaps it was too soon? Wasn’t there some superstition about waiting until the third month or starting to show or something? Harry was never certain what to say when it came to family news. The Dursleys had made sure that he was never included by anyone in the neighborhood in things like this. “A little Marauder could be just what we need about now.”

 

“I want to help you, Harry,” Lupin said in a rush. Harry recognized the tone he was using. Seamus used it when he was attempting to talk his way into trouble or back out again. Ron’s eyes flickered up to meet Harry’s in a brief flash of blue. Harry didn’t need to exchange words to know that Ron recognized it as well. It was not until Harry saw Hermione’s wand twitch that he realized the implications of that small statement. Hermione’s nod was almost imperceptible. “I don’t know what, but I do know that Dumbledore charged you with something. I can help! You’ve got to let me, Harry. For Dora’s sake.”

 

“What about the baby? I don’t know how long our mission would take, sir,” Harry replied. Dumbledore had told him not to tell anyone, but what good did it do when he had given Harry next to no clues as to what to do? Dumbledore had destroyed the ring in some way that he had never disclosed. They couldn’t stab every Horcrux with a basilisk fang, now could they? After all, they were fresh out at the moment. But he wouldn’t steal a baby’s father away, someone’s husband. “Doesn’t T—Dora need you?”

 

“She’s better off without me,” the werewolf whispered. It echoed in the quiet room. Harry saw red. His hand tightened on the back of the chair. After weeks of inaction and stress, Harry’s temper finally found some target to focus on that was not Voldemort. But before the Boy-Who-Lived could do more than draw in the breath to yell, there was a loud thunk as Hermione’s book dropped to the floor. Harry and Ron could only stare as Hermione stalked from the couch to where Lupin stood. The slap was just as loud as the book’s thunk had been and Harry felt the same small thrill at this slap that he had gotten from Hermione slapping Malfoy back in third year.

 

“Never, ever, _ever,_ doubt that Tonks loves you, you ingrate,” Hermione snapped. Magic crackled in the air, but Harry couldn’t tell if it was from her or him. The tiny part of him that was not thoroughly pissed off, pitied Lupin having to face down Hermione in a rage. It was a tiny part that was easily ignored. “It is times like this that we should pull together as family, not segment ourselves!”

 

“Would my father have left my mother while she was pregnant?” Somehow, Harry managed to not shout while still conveying the depth of his anger. All the pictures from the attic flashed through his mind. That man did not look like he would leave the angel at his side for anything. Harry felt the anger begin to ebb at the thought of his parents. They would have done anything to save him, even if it meant sacrificing time with him. He knew it instinctively. But would either of them have claimed that the other was better off without them? “Hermione’s right. This is the time we should pull together, but Dumbledore said not to share my mission. If Voldemort knew—“

 

Kreacher chose that moment to pop into to library. The little elf was grinning maniacally and was practically glowing with pride. He had scratches on his cheek that seeped a greenish-blue substance that must be blood. The clean pillowcase that Harry had forced upon him a couple of weeks ago in gratitude of his determination of getting the locket back for them was now stained with ash and blood—the red human variety. What drew all conversation in the room to a stop was the golden locket in his tiny hand. The light flashed off it tauntingly.

 

“Kreacher has it, Master Harry! _Kreacher has it_!”

 

Kreacher seemed immune to the tension that filled the study as he continued to hold his prize in the air with a huge grin splitting his face in half. It was not until the house elf began to wilt a little that Harry managed to find the will to move. To the great amusement of Ron, Harry grabbed Kreacher and swung him into his arms, careless of the blood and soot that would stain his clothes. All the while, they were doing their impromptu dance, Harry kept up a litany of praise. He was going over the top and he knew it. Harry also knew that Kreacher would scold him about things becoming of a young lord when he was finally released. The sheer relief that they now had a Horcrux in their possession was fueling his actions. Kreacher deserved a little praise now and again.

 

But the tension caused by Lupin’s presence was dissipating like fog under the heat of the sun. Ron was beating on the table before him as he let out loud booms of laughter. Hermione had both hands covering her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle her giggles. Her wand was giving out little bursts of blue light not quite formed enough to be called sparks. Even Lupin had a shy smile on his face.

 

Finally, Harry allowed Kreacher to squirm out of his arms. The tiny house elf had an expression as if he could not decide between outrage at his treatment and smugness at his success. Harry just grinned at him, causing Kreacher’s shallow cheeks to flush a deeper green. The old creature snapped his fingers and vanished, presumably back to his little nest or the kitchen. Harry had noticed that Kreacher cooked when he was upset. Thus Harry found himself standing in the middle of the study with a Horcrux in his hand and all eyes focused on him. He had to swallow hard before speaking.

 

“Look, Lupin—just go home to your wife,” Harry said. He winced at the words as soon as they left his mouth. Well, no one said this was going to be easy. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate the offer of help—we do, very much—but I can’t be responsible for you ditching your expecting wife. This is a time that we need to be united—“

 

“All the more reason to accept my help, Harry,” Lupin interrupted. It was not as smoothly as what Snape was capable of, nor as affable as what the Headmaster used to do. All the pressure and paradigm shifts that had happened in the last three months chose that moment to make themselves felt. Harry did what any teenager, even the ones who were supposed to be adults, would do under that circumstance. He got angry.

 

“Oh, really? Are you in that much of a hurry to die? Because that’s what happens to those that try to help me! Dumbledore spent his last precious spell making sure that I couldn’t interfere with his plans—he died. Sirius came to save me—he died. Hell—even Mad-Eye is gone! I’m leaving a string of bodies behind me and it goes back to my own parents! Speaking of whom—don’t you think it would have been a good idea to actually _tell_ me about the boxes of their stuff in the attic?”

 

Silence fell after his question. It seemed as loud as his voice had been just moments before when he had been shouting. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kreacher phase into the room in the shadows cast by the divan. The old elf looked positively murderous and Harry was thankful that his bulbous eyes were focused on Lupin. Ron just looked baffled at Harry’s declaration as did Lupin. It was Hermione that acted first. This made sense when Harry thought about it later. She was a girl after all.

 

“Oh, _Harry,_ ” she said as she crossed the room and took him into her arms. The witch pulled him close in a tight hug that would have put any from Mrs. Weasley to shame. If it weren’t for the wand poking him in the side of his head, it would have been the best hug he had ever had. At least the wand was not still sparking. That would have been bad. “Harry, you know that none of that was your fault, right?”

 

“Hermione’s right, Harry,” Lupin put in softly. “They didn’t die just because of you. They died defending what was right. As for the stuff in the attic… well, do you mean the boxes that Sirius had me pull from his vault when he moved back into this place? They’re from your parents’? I didn’t know that. If you don’t mind me asking, what’s in them?”

 

“Stuff,” Harry said into Hermione’s shoulder. He felt a strange quiver go through his friend as she made a quiet choking noise before tapping him in the ear with her wand. He pulled back to look at her. She was struggling to frown at him. From somewhere—he wasn’t sure where, perhaps his father’s genes—he felt the urge to wink at her. So he did. She quickly turned away to face the former professor, her eyes twinkling suspiciously.

 

“It was mostly books, sir,” Hermione answered, her tone jovial as if she hadn’t hit the man not ten minutes ago. “It also contained pictures...of Harry before that Halloween. Sir, do you remember how he got his scar? He has it in a bunch of the pictures which would be impossible if it were a curse scar caused by the Killing Curse.”

 

“James said that he got a hold of Sirius’ wand,” Lupin replied uneasily. He shifted his weight slightly as if he would take a step back or turn. Harry’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. The werewolf held up his hands in surrender. “I swear that was what he told me. Not only did you get that scar, but Lily spent the next while in bed from magical exhaustion. I have never seen James and Sirius so worried before. They took nothing serious, not even the war. Even Frank was worried. Alice wasn’t, however. Not even when the Healers had to give you potions due to the blood loss. She just held you through it.”

 

“She did? Where was Mum?”

 

“Another part of St. Mungo’s,” the werewolf answered, looking nervous again. Then he looked concerned. “Harry, you must understand that it was an accident. They happen to all children. In the end, everyone was fine. You were cranky for a few days and Lily was on bed rest for about two weeks, but that was all. Children get a hold of their caretakers’ wands all the time. You just nabbed one early. That’s all.”

 

“How—how old was I?”

 

“Seven months.”

 

Harry felt his knees start to give out. Suddenly the chair pushed against the back of his legs. Harry was grateful for something to sink into and knew that it was Kreacher’s doing. Especially when the house elf in question asked him anxiously if there was anything he needed in between glares at Lupin. Harry waved off his concern and placed his elbows on his thighs, leaning forward in attempt to still the spinning in his head.

 

He was seven months old when he had almost killed both his mother and himself. Seven months...most children were only babbling at that age, pulling up on things. He was an attempted murderer. Harry knew that he was ignoring Lupin’s reassurances that it was only an accident, but honestly what could have caused such a reaction? He felt warmth settle on the floor beside him before fingers began to card through his hair. It did far more to anchor him to the present than the arguing going on in the background. Her soft words of comfort were really without meaning, but still meant so much to his addled mind despite that.

 

He almost wished his scar was from Voldemort. Knowing that it came from an incident that almost killed him and his mother was somehow worse...far worse.

 

 -= LP =-

 

“Next week’s Halloween,” Ron announced as the trio started on breakfast. Harry didn’t look up from the book he was reading about runic arrays used to make permanent effects. He had a good feeling about this book as it had several pages dog-eared and notes in a tidy feminine hand that he was calling his mother’s, though he had no proof either way. Feeling Hermione’s gaze upon the top of his head, he took a bite of his eggs followed by a bite of his tomatoes. It wouldn’t do to make the witch angry with him. The lack of enthusiasm for his announcement did not deter Ron in the slightest. “I miss the feast at Hogwarts. The pumpkin pastries weren’t as good as my mother’s, but they were pretty good. Do you think Kreacher knows how to make pumpkin pastries?”

 

“Only you, Ron, could think about giving that poor elf more work,” Hermione started, though Harry could still feel her gaze on him. He frowned in thought before taking a few more bites of his breakfast followed by a long swallow of tea. Harry felt a hand pulling gently on his book. “Harry, tell him that Kreacher does enough around here without having to worry about Halloween.”

 

“Well, it would be up to Kreacher, wouldn’t it? I don’t know if he knows how to make pumpkin pastries, though if he does, I’m sure they’re smashing because everything he makes is great. Much better than I would make, at any rate,” Harry replied, annoyed, before addressing the shadows of the doorway where he could sense the bright speck of magic that was a house elf. “Isn’t that right, Kreacher?”

 

“Master is very smart for a halfblood,” Kreacher replied with a grin that would have fit better on Dobby’s face. “Kreacher’s mistress loved pumpkin pasties. Kreacher’s pumpkin pasties are much better than those of any blood traitor scum.”

 

“Kreacher, remember what we discussed about being mean? You’re doing it again. You’re getting better though. It’s been a whole week since you talked like that. Now would you be willing to make pumpkin pastries for Halloween next week?” Harry diligently ignored both the “pasties” image that popped into his head and Ron’s reddening face. He kept his green eyes focused on Kreacher. He was not disappointed by the little elf’s enthusiastic nod.

 

“Kreacher would be happy to make a Samhain feast for Master and his friends. What would Master like? Kreacher makes great moon cakes and Dark Goddess cake—Hunter stew? Oh, Kreacher is so pleased that Master is going to honor his great ancestors like a proud pureblood. Kreacher was worried, whats with the company Master keeps—“ The house elf’s large eyes flickered towards Hermione before focusing on Harry once more. “But I’s pleased. Master’s studies are coming along nicely.”

 

“Er, just make whatever it is that you usually make for a sow-in feast, Kreacher,” Harry answered nervously when the elf paused expectantly. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

 

“Master is very wise. I’s much to plan!” And the little being disappeared with a pop that was more felt than heard.

 

“Um, any idea what we’re going to be eating next week? Because I’ve no clue what I just agreed to,” Harry queried more to Hermione than to Ron. Hermione was usually the one with the answers anyway. Therefore he was a bit surprised when it was Ron that answered.

 

“Some families keep the old traditions,” Ron answered, his earlier anger seemingly disappeared, “even if only for Halloween, or Samhain as they call it. Samhain is a time to reconnect with the lessons that our dead have taught us. The Lovegoods did a full ritual every High Holiday, but Mum and Dad didn’t hold with that. Well, I should say Mum didn’t—I saw Dad do some stuff behind her back growing up; stuff that might have been the same things that Mrs. Lovegood did before she—you know.”

 

“So it’s like Wicca?”

 

Harry had an image in his head of a group of naked people dancing around a fire that he had seen on the telly once before Uncle Vernon had made Dudley change the channel. That was about the extent of his information about the religion Wicca—was it a religion, even? Maybe it was like Confucianism? His knowledge of religion was sketchy at best. The Dursleys didn’t even go to church on a regular basis.

 

“Is that a muggle term?”

 

“Um,” Hermione said, blinking. She and Harry looked at each other, equally confused now. Harry for his part was kind of pleased that Ron had managed to confuse the brilliant witch for once even if it meant that he was staying in the dark. Ron looked faintly shocked at his success. That shock grew as the silence did.

 

“The old traditions are a way of doing magic without a wand. It’s not always as showy as what we can do, and is nowhere near as easy, but tends to be more potent in short bursts.”

 

“So it’s wandless magic?”

 

“Well, not exactly…”

 

Harry went back to his book, his curiosity fading just a bit. He kept half an ear on the conversation as the two went back and forth on how to classify these “old traditions” with Hermione becoming more and more frustrated as Ron seemed to contradict himself. Harry had memories of a girl with strange dice back in the last year of primary and another confusing explanation of magic. Of course, Dudley had put paid to the idea of a friend (even an odd one) almost as soon as the girl had started explaining the game’s magic system.

 

“Divine magic?” Harry put in suddenly, not really paying attention to the fact that he was talking at all. Both his friends turned towards him, though Hermione gave a little huff as she was cut off mid-rant. “Calling on a divine figure to have a magical effect?”

 

“Yes, exactly! See? Harry gets it,” Ron told Hermione smugly. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and smirked. Harry frowned again.

 

“Who would it call upon though? I don’t know of any churches in the Wizarding world and I thought I read that wizards looked down on Christians due to the burnings?”

 

“I actually don’t know,” Ron answered deflating a little. “Where did you read that?”

 

“It was our History of Magic for the summer after second year, Ronald!”

 

“If you two are going to argue, I’m going to go read in the study—“

 

“Blimey, mate, is that all you do lately? You’re worse than Hermione!”

 

“The oaf—“

 

“Hey!”

 

“—does have a point, Harry. You’re not still brooding about what Lupin told us, are you? That was a month ago.”

 

“I am not _brooding_. I am trying to find a way to destroy the Horcrux that we have since we don’t have any leads on where Hufflepuff’s Cup might be.”

 

“Tis in a Black Vault, Master,” Kreacher said popping back into the room with a book. The little elf set the book on the table. He looked at Harry’s half-eaten plate and back at Harry. If Kreacher had had eyebrows, one would have been raised in silent query. Harry sighed and resumed his seat to finish his meal. Seriously, the elf was worse than Hermione and Mrs. Weasley _combined_. Only after the Gryffindor had taken a couple of bites did the elf continue. “Missy Bella’s vault to be exact. Shall I fetch it for Master?”

 

“Oh, yes, please, Kreacher—if you would,” Harry said after swallowing a Ron-sized bite of tomato and egg. He couldn’t stop the grin that crossed his face. Kreacher looked just as pleased with himself as Harry was with the elf’s news. “That would be great!” The house elf gave a low bow and disappeared before he was fully raised from it. Harry turned his grin towards his two friends. “Two destroyed, two in possession, two at large, and one unknown. Now if we could only destroy the ones we had and could find Ravenclaw’s Diadem or even knew what it looked like—“

 

“There’s a picture of her in _Hogwarts, a History_. Honestly, will you two never read it?”

 

Ron and Harry looked at each other, a brief meeting of blue and green. Then they burst out laughing at what they had come to call Hermione’s usual quirks. It felt good to laugh again. Hermione must have thought the same, because after a moment, she joined them in the laughter.

 

For a priceless moment, they were three teens enjoying a morning together. All thoughts of war, Dark Lords, and accidents involving wands were forgotten. It was a good moment.

 

 -= LP =-

 

Harry looked up from his book as Kreacher popped back into the room with the crown-thingy that he had seen in the Room of Lost Things at Hogwarts. Without him having to signal her, Hermione was already moving forward to take the item from the house elf. Scrutinizing it, she cross-referenced it with the image in _Hogwarts, a History_. Finally, her eyes met Harry’s across the room and nodded. Harry didn’t need to nod to confirm that it was Ravenclaw’s Diadem. He could feel the dark energy rolling off of it in tiny, almost imperceptible waves. He stood, commanding attention of his two friends and the house elf. He held up the book he had been reading, the Black Grimoire that Kreacher had so thoughtfully brought to the kitchen yesterday morning.

 

“I believe that I know how to destroy the Horcruxes,” Harry announced without preamble. Inside he was trembling despite his calm exterior. He was certain that Hermione knew by the slightly thoughtful frown she wore. Ron’s scowl was another story. Harry had no idea what could have caused it. Fortunately, Ron was _kind_ enough to open his mouth and let them know what he was thinking.

 

”You want to use dark arts to get rid of You-Know-Who? How does that make us any better than _him?”_

 

Harry looked askance at Hermione. She was staring at Ron with a look of shocked dismay on her face. ‘ _Okay, I’m not the only one who thinks he completely missed the point here,’_ Harry thought bitterly. He turned back to his friend. Dense though he was, Ron deserved an explanation. Harry felt his expression harden slightly into a mask of neutrality. In response to his desperate need, his magic wrapped tightly around him. He lifted his chin, a solider holding his head high as he had decided after his talk about the prophecy with Dumbledore last spring.

 

“I will do whatever it takes to rid the world of Voldemort forever, Ron,” Harry said firmly, no trace of his trepidation or very real fear evident in his voice. Across the room, Hermione echoed his words and tone.

 

“Whatever it takes.”

 

 -= LP =-

 

The next week was difficult for Harry’s nerves. No amount of coaxing could compel Ron to help with the purification rite that Harry had found. Harry easily recognized that Ron was planting his feet on the matter by the end of the first day’s conversation. Hermione was either oblivious to the stance the redhead was taking or angry enough to be ignoring it. As the week progressed, their arguments got louder and more volatile. It did not take long for things from the past to be brought into the heated discussions, which in turn caused the volume to rise even higher.

 

It was not until Ron went for his wand that Harry decided to interfere. With speed he could only accredit to the hours spent practicing with the DA, Harry had Ron bound in ropes and dangling upside down in the air. He then turned his glare towards Hermione who had the withal to at least look ashamed of her childish behavior. She looked down and took a deep breath. Harry watched as she counted to herself as she let it slowly out in the calming ritual he had notice her beginning to use during Umbridge’s tenure as Defense professor. Knowing that she had it well in hand, he turned back to Ron whose face had turned a flushed red to match his hair. Harry had the feeling that it _was not_ because of embarrassment.

 

Harry felt his own temper rise in response. The last almost three months of captivity had frayed his already thin control—Harry was, and perhaps always would be, a creature of action and that side of him was currently at war with the small but determined part that was determined to see Voldemort defeated. Gryffindor tactics wouldn’t do that—they only got people killed or hurt needlessly. He was _trying_ to follow the wisdom of his Slytherin side and make judicious use of his time and resources. It didn’t change the fact that he craved the act of _doing something_ —It had taken a long, difficult night to steel himself against the idea of storming the Ministry to get the locket from Umbridge or some plan that was equally fool-hardy but far more courageous than taking Kreacher up on his offer to attempt to get the Horcrux back.

 

“Now,” Harry questioned, attempting to reign in his temper which was clawing like a mad beast to be freed, “can we discuss this like reasonable adults, or are we going to fight among ourselves like Voldemort wants?”

 

“And you’d know what he wants, wouldn’t you! All that studying you’ve been doing—those are dark arts texts. I’m not stupid, you know!”

 

“No one said that,” Hermione protested loudly. Ron rushed on as if he hadn’t heard her. Magic began to gather in the downstairs parlor. Harry had the feeling that this would not end well, but might just provide the action that he was craving. Suddenly, he didn’t want it quite so badly. He did not lower Ron or untie him, just in case. The wizard in question didn’t seem to care that he was upside down as he shouted his next words.

 

“And now—and now you want to do a dark ritual! And you’re trying to drag me and Hermione into the pit with you!”

 

“It’s not a dark ritual,” Harry said after heaving a dramatic sigh. Carefully, he turned Ron right side up and lowered him to the ground. Perhaps, if he was destined to repeat himself, his audience might appreciate that more in a more dignified position. Harry frowned, only half in concentration, as he continued. “At least, I don’t think so. It’s a purification rite. It should strip the dark energy from the Horcruxes and thereby destroy them. That’s what Dumbledore wanted me to do—what you guys said you wanted to help with!”

 

“What have there been to help with,” Ron demanded. He used his newly restored freedom to put his fists on his hips. Harry had a suddenly absurd memory of Mrs. Weasley in the same position as she scolded the twins about their pranks. This image was followed with one of Ron wagging his finger at Harry like a mother scolding her errant child. The idea was ridiculous and did not help him deal with his irate friend. “You just send that damned elf to get the Horcruxes like you can’t be bothered with it! Merlin’s saggy Y-fronts! You’re turning into _Malfoy_!”

 

“I take it back,” Hermione hissed like a wet cat before Harry could say anything. Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from interrupting her. He had learned back in sixth year not to interrupt a mad Hermione. It wasn’t good for a man’s health. “That has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. There is no way that Harry would be turning into that ferret-faced, pompous, irritating, annoying, bigoted—“

 

“That’s not the point, Hermione!” Ron erupted, having clearly not learned the same lesson as Harry. Harry noticed Hermione shifting her grip on her wand and wondered if she would conjure more birds to attack the redhead. The memory unexpectedly cheered him and dissipated his anger at Ron a bit. It was not much, mind you—just enough to take away the red haze that was threatening to consume him. “The point is that we should not be just hiding away and sending a _house elf_ into danger! We should be fighting _You-Know-Who_!”

 

“And what would be the point of that, Ron?” Harry had growled the question out before he could help himself. The red haze threatened to return. He wanted Voldemort dead as much as the next person, but the Dark Lord could not be killed yet! Ron knew this and he would still have them throw away their lives? That would practically assure that the war was over, yes, but they would not have won anything. “We have to be able to kill him before we move against him—which means we have to destroy his anchors first. We are the only ones who know about them. If we die, no one will know what needs to be done to kill Voldemort—oh, get over it! It’s a name, nothing more.”

 

Harry didn’t understand this obsession with not referring to Voldemort’s real name—well, not his _real_ name, but at least what he is commonly known as. Dumbledore said it best when he said that the fear of a name increases the fear of the object or something along those lines. Even Hermione could now say the name without stuttering. Why couldn’t Ron get with the program already?

 

“Harry, you know that it’s difficult for him,” Hermione started as if out of habit and sounding inexplicably tired. “He was raised with the foolish fear of that ridiculous name. He didn’t just adopt it like I did. It would be harder for him to unlearn the bad habit of flinching. Though I would think that he would at least try, being a _Gryffindor_ and all.”

 

The way she said the last bit reminded Harry of the time he heard Piers Polkiss call another member of Dudley’s gang a poofer for not wanting to beat up that primary school kid back before fifth year. Harry was not surprised to see Ron’s red face beginning to take on hints of purple. Maybe he’s now too in touch with his Slytherin side because it was starting to look good to get out of the line of fire. If there was one thing that Ron hated, it was having his bravery questioned.

 

“I think that might have been a bit below—“ Harry started only to be interrupted by Mount Ron.

 

“Now see here: I’m not the one in question here. That’s Harry! He’s the one going dark like a _Slytherin_!”

 

“I’m not going—“

 

“Oh, yeah? Well, you know what? I DON’T CARE! I would rather be _dark_ and have Voldemort dead than to let him live because I was too _good_ and _pure_ to do what was necessary to destroy him.” Hermione crossed her arms a triumphal expression on her face. Her wand was giving off those funny blue bursts again. Harry moved backwards out from between the pair, but kept his wand out and at ready. “I have personally looked over this ritual. Nothing about it will compromise _my_ virtue or my _honor_. I have every confidence that it will do exactly what Harry thinks it will. So, guess what, Ron: I’m going to keep my promise and help Harry with it. AND YOU CAN BLOODY WELL SOD OFF FOR ALL I CARE!”

 

With that parting line, she spun on her toes and apparated on the spot. The crack was particularly loud and disgruntled. There was silence for a moment before Ron let out an equally loud roar of rage and stomped out of the room via the door. The stomping continued up the stairs to the bedroom that he and Ron had shared the summer before fifth year and that Ron now had to himself. The slammed door was a bit childish, but Harry could understand how Ron felt. Kreacher wandered through the parlor not a moment afterwards. He was muttering about the blood traitor disrespecting his Family’s house.

 

Harry didn’t bother correcting the slur, but sank into an armchair handily placed behind him. He rubbed his forehead as he fervently hoped that Hermione had cooled down by the time they would have to start the ritual tomorrow. It would be hard enough without Ron. Harry didn’t think he could do it without Hermione’s help.

 

Halloween was going to be a _long_ day.

 

 -= LP =-

 

Harry looked at the book he had open on the floor near where he was kneeling. With a critical eyes, he compared his drawn circle with the diagram in the Black Grimoire. The square that was half the size of the surrounding circle glinted in the candlelight as if it were a steel cage containing some terrible beast rather than a chalk shape. Coming out of the center of each of the square’s sides was a straight line capped by a sharp arch. There was barely an inch between the curved top of the arches and the wider, gentler curve of the encompassing circle. The Horcruxes sat in the center of it all like some kind of offering. The magic that rolled off of them seemed to be contained within the square, relieving the revolting feelings of helpless anger and restlessness that had been bothering him.

 

He had not realized just how much that magic might have been influencing him until its subtle voice was silenced. It was like turning off a radio whose volume was just below hearing range. Things just seemed cheerier. Unfortunately, in the absence of anger, his nerves were threatening to mutiny.

 

A quiet murmur caught his attention and caused him to give Hermione an anxious look. The witch in question was arranging the items necessary for the first step of the ritual while referencing the journal that Harry had found amongst the boxes in the attic. Harry hadn’t paid any attention to it beyond noting the fact that it seemed to be a hodgepodge of handwritten information and pages of what looked like duplicated pages from other books added seemingly randomly throughout the moderately sized volume, but Hermione seemed particularly taken with it…though she never did say why.

 

‘ _Hmm. Note to self, ask later,_ ’ Harry commented inwardly.

 

Her light blue dressing gown seemed pale and flimsy in the flickering light cast from the candles in the scones on the wall. It reminded Harry of the gown she had worn to the Yule Ball in their fourth year—a truly odd thought considering what they would soon be doing. Naked.

 

‘ _Oh, God_.’

 

Harry swallowed around the thickness in his throat at that realization. Even knowing that they would not be doing anything remotely resembling the things that he and Ginny had gotten up to in the various broom closets of Hogwarts, Harry had a nervousness similar to what he had felt the first time Ginny had pulled him into one of the aforementioned cramped spaces for a vamp session. He had never seen a girl naked in real life (though he had seen some fetching birds in Dean’s skin magazines and groping Ginny in the darkness did inspire his imagination). He had just never even thought that Hermione—his bossy bookworm of a friend—would be the first.

 

Not that he had ever doubted Hermione’s feminineness. It was just…well, she was Hermione. She had always been there through everything, even when Ron had turned his back or acted like a prat. She always seemed to know exactly what he needed, even if it were a smack to the back of the head. It seemed wrong to label that or use her as fodder for what his Aunt Petunia called ‘ _perverse thoughts_ ’. The thought of his aunt brought to mind that odd expression she had had when she told him farewell and was also highly effective at redirecting blood flow away from his groin which had taken a vested interest in the thought of Hermione’s curvy form, groping, and broom closets.

 

“Ready?”

 

Harry blinked away from his internal thoughts to meet Hermione’s warm eyes. She gave him a small, tight smile. One part of her bottom lip disappeared beneath pearly white teeth as she worried it. Somehow, knowing that his normally very confident friend was just as nervous as him about the prospect of what they were about to do bolstered his own confidence. Never underestimate the power of kindred spirits. He nodded at her, but made no move to remove the dressing gown that he wore over his boxers.

 

Their eyes met again as the nervous tension wound tighter between them. Then Hermione got the strangest look on her face. Her brown eyes crossed as if she was looking at something on her nose and she stuck her tongue out at him. As quickly as the expression appeared, it was gone again, leaving Hermione looking at him as innocently serious as Luna after she mentioned some odd creature. The entire experience was silly to the point of Harry expecting some random guy in a uniform to appear and scold them. The fact that it was _Hermione_ , straight-laced Hermione, who made the face made it even funnier. Harry couldn’t help his reaction. He burst out with a bark of laughter that quickly morphed into a gale. Hermione followed with ladylike snickers.

 

“There now,” Hermione said after their laughter had abated somewhat, though she still sounded a bit winded. “Isn’t that better? Are we ready now?”

 

“I think so,” Harry gasped. His lips were stretched into a wide grin the like of which he hadn’t felt like doing since Dumbledore had died and the war became _real_. He took a deep breath and let it out, attempting to regain the serious mindset. His hands settled onto the belt’s knot. “Um, so how do you want to…you know?”

 

“I think it would be easier if you came over here—around, not through, Harry! You don’t want to disturb the circle’s energy. Good. Now, I’ll cast the spell on you first so that you can see it one last time. Um…we’ll need to be out of the robes…”

 

Their eyes met again though the tension didn’t return. Their bout of laughter seemed to have settled their mutual nerves enough that they weren’t going to pass out from embarrassment. Unfortunately, Harry, being the teenage boy that he was, felt a stirring at the thought of ‘naked woman’ regardless of what he felt about said possessor of nakedness. He felt his face begin to turn the color of Ron’s hair. The thought of his other best friend was enough to still that stirring—thankfully. This would have been a terrible time to find out _that_ about himself.

 

“Rock, Paper, Scissors—for who goes first, I mean?”

 

“Or you could be a gentleman and offer to go first,” Hermione teased lightly with a gentle fist press to his shoulder. Harry gave her a pout, but began to undo the belt of his dressing gown without any other protest. It took less than a minute to slip off both articles of clothing that he had worn during the preparations. He sat them aside easily and looked back at Hermione, prepared to issue a challenge for her to do the same only to find that while he had been focusing on removing his shorts, she had been shedding her own dressing gown. That was not the only thing that Harry had discovered in that moment as his mind gleefully informed his hormone addled imagination.

 

Hermione was most definitely, without a doubt and without reservation, a woman.

 

“Erg,” he said as he choked on his breath. Hermione turned away to reach for their wands as if unaware of the fact that her best friend was seriously contemplating how much he respected her versus how very toss-worthy her form was under her cloths. If he had had any blood left for cognitive purposes at the moment, Harry might have been more than a tad bit envious of how comfortable she was within her own skin. ‘ _Oh, Ron’s gonna kill me,_ ’ was Harry’s only other thought.

 

“Ioncuimil,” Hermione said, pointing her wand at Harry with a flourish. All thoughts of wanking left him as the spell washed over him like a wave of sandpaper. Despite having bathed earlier so thoroughly that he made an obsessive-compulsive person seem tame, it felt like the necessary purification spell was taking off a thick layer of skin. He understood the need to be completely ‘purified’ before attempting to purify the artifacts with the ritual, but _damn_ if that didn’t feel mighty uncomfortable. It also left him with an odd feeling that was similar to how he felt after carrying Dudley home. Not the crushing pain that was his cousin’s bulky weight, but the relieved feeling of letting go of a heavy burden. The whirlwind of sensation left him panting slightly, but energized. When he was finally able to focus again, he noticed Hermione’s concerned look. “Are you alright, Harry?”

 

“I—“ Harry’s voice cracked in the embarrassing way that he had been spared up until now. He took a deep breath to recover and tried again. “I’m fine, Hermione. It’s just rather, er, _intense._ ”

 

He gave her a reassuring smile and lifted his wand. She eyed it a moment before nodding her assent. He repeated the spell. She gave a little gasp despite having braced for it. She didn’t seem to be in any pain, however. The emotion covering her face was much different. Harry found himself fascinated by the blissful expression on her face as her gasp turned into a relaxed sigh. It caused something inside him to stir. It was the same hungry beast that had led him to give Ginny that first joyous kiss, but it wasn’t growling like then. It only gave a contented purr that Harry did not have the time or inclination to think about at the moment. Hermione opened her eyes and gave him a madonic smile.

 

“Oh, intense is right,” the witch murmured. She shook her head as if to clear it of cobwebs. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Harry had seen her do this to calm herself. Sometimes, she had to be reminded to do it, but Harry knew that it worked for her. Hmm. He added it to his growing list of things to think about _later_ when he wasn’t in the middle of trying to destroy Voldemort. Recovered, she reached for his wand and placed them back on the side table that was serving as an altar. With a ruthless determination, Harry squashed the little voice that sounded suspiciously like his Uncle Vernon that was commenting on the freakishness of the whole situation and focused on helping Hermione bless the circle that took up a good portion of the smooth stone floor.

 

They worked fluidly as if it was a completely normal occurrence to call upon invisible beings called ‘Guardians of the Watchtowers’. Surprisingly, Hermione didn’t scoff at the thought of them like she did nargles. Harry never did get around to asking her the why of that due to Ron doing his angry bear routine all week, but he suspected it had to do with the fact that the phrase occurred in several books other than the Black Grimoire. It wasn’t until he took the chalice from her and had turned to go around the circle to bless it that their fluidity faltered.

 

At the sight of his back, Hermione had gasped. Harry stilled and looked over his shoulder at her. Her mouth was hanging open as her eyes traced … _something_ … on his back. She seemed to gather herself quickly and mouthed the words ‘tell you later’ at him. He gave her an answering nod and continued through the necessary motions of the blessing.

 

After the image had been blessed, the chalk seemed to shine with a light that was more than a mere reflection of the candlelight. Harry had the same feeling of the hair rising on the back of his neck that he got around the Horcruxes, except without the same brooding feeling that they inspired. He knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that they had achieved the effect that they were after. It made him nervous about the next part—the part that was undeniably religious. If this worked, and so strongly, what would calling on a Deity do?

 

Harry was not particularly religious, or even spiritual. The Dursleys had gone to church, yes, but only because that was what _normal_ people did. They didn’t put anything behind it. But now that they were going to call out to a goddess with no name and ask her a favor. He had never even thought of the possibility of a goddess before a week ago. What if…what if she was real? What did that mean for…well, _everything_?

 

He felt Hermione’s hand slide into his and give him a squeeze. The warm moisture of her grip grounded him just as her nervousness earlier had done. Whatever happened, Hermione was there beside him like she always was, a strong lighthouse amidst the turbulent seas of his life ever beckoning him to safety or at very least, sanity. He took a deep breath, feeling the fear leak out of him. He gave her an answering squeeze, but did not drop her hand. He could really use the anchor at the moment. He felt her tap a simple rhythm with her index finger against the back of his hand. Harry didn’t need to look at her to catch her signal to start the intonation.

 

“We come before You, oh Goddess,

Willing supplicants and completely bare

Before Your all-seeing gaze.”

 

Harry felt as if he had caught the attention of McGonagall. From the slight tremble that Hermione’s hand now had, he knew that she could feel it too. Whatever was paying attention now was way stronger than anything Harry had ever met before in his life. The strong scent of magic began to be noticeable. If he had been pressed for a description, he would have likened it to the smell of ozone that preceded a storm. But there was a feeling that went with that smell. Harry had never felt like he did in that moment, not that he could recall, anyway. The reassurance and pure acceptance was very similar to how Hermione made him feel, but somehow it was…simply _more_.

 

“We seek Your help, Mother of All,

In the purification of these items.

We lay them before You in this consecrated space,

Offerings that are unworthy of Your Purity.

Take away their taint.

Make them worthy,

As You do all things in Your time.

Destroy the darkness, oh Wisest Crone,

That permeates them and by them, us.”

 

A wind whipped around the small room, leaving nothing untouched. The tiny flames atop the candles danced merrily in it, casting strange shadows upon the walls. The faint glow of the circle grew in strength. Its magical light warmed his skin as if it were sunlight—no, as if it were the bloody effing _sun_. Harry could feel his skin prickling against it. His scar began to ache, dully at first but gradually it grew from ache to sharp pain. Only years of stifling his cries kept him giving away evidence of it beyond a deepening of his voice as he spoke the final words in unison with Hermione.

 

“May our wills be one, Oh Great One!”

 

The power that they had raised snapped into action with a blinding flash that painted his vision white. Somewhere in the brightness, there were spots of tarry blackness that popped like the bubbles in the champagne that Uncle Vernon had bought to celebrate his promotion when Harry was nine. Harry could have sworn he even heard the tiny noise similar to that long-ago cork being freed. Something thick and wet trickled down his face to one side of his nose as the sharp pain in his scar graduated to stabbing agony. Grateful that the ritual’s crucial parts were over, Harry sank to the ground, his knees too weak to hold him any longer.

 

“I think you might have to…” He took a deep, shuddering breath as he blinked rapidly in an instinctual attempt to clear the colored spots and growing fog from his vision. “To close the circle by…by yourself…’Mione.”

 

“Harry? Oh, no, Harry! You’re bleeding!”

 

“I am?” Harry reached the hand that was not gripping Hermione’s like a lifeline and touched to moisture that was threatening to overflow his top lip. Groggily, he pulled it away and looked at his fingertips. Somehow, through the encroaching grayness, he saw the dark crimson of the aforementioned blood. A foul smell reached his nose from the ichor. He gagged as his stomach rebelled but managed to not embarrass himself. He looked up at his best friend and blinked owlishly at her. “I think…that I’m going to pass out…close…the circle…’Mione.”

 

The last thing he saw was Hermione’s frightened face and her lips moving. The sound of rushing water filled his ears and drowned out any sound that might have been coming from Hermione’s mouth. The grayness turned to black and he knew no more. He was out before his body finished collapsing into a heap just outside the circle.

 

 -= LP =-

 

Pain was the first thing that Harry became aware of as he drifted through the blackness. It prickled the edges of his mind like the tightening of skin against a source of heat. It didn’t seem to originate from any specific portion of his body, a fact for which Harry was able to be vaguely thankful. It was also offset by a heady lightness that left Harry with the feeling of weightlessness, as if he had been swimming and was now on land. Woven throughout the two feelings was a giddy warmth that seemed to pulse like a heart at the slightest bit of attention.

 

The next thing to filter through the haze was the hissing sounds of furious whispers that were flung across him from either side. Occasionally the voice on his left would start to rise only for a third voice to bark out a stern command for silence. Harry didn’t know how long it took, but eventually the voices transformed from tones to actual words though he still had to struggle to make sense of them.

 

“I _told_ you it was dangerous,” hissed the voice on the left.

 

“Oh, don’t even start, Ronald,” replied the right and feminine one. “The rite itself was not the problem—clearly, as I am fine. I think—for the _sixth_ time—that the Goddess tried to purify Voldemort—grow up—through Harry’s connection with him.”

 

“And she obviously was not successful,” Ron pointed out with a tone of expectation. There was sort of a smug satisfaction amidst the words that Harry knew he would be upset with had the pain not made him apathetic towards everything.

 

“What is _that_ supposed to mean,” Hermione demanded waspishly.

 

“I guess your ‘goddess’ isn’t as all-powerful as you thought.”

 

“I never said that!”

 

“You implied it!”

 

“Do you even know the meaning of the word ‘imply’?”

 

“That’s—“

 

“Utterly inappropriate? I know, but so was your comment.” This statement was followed by a gusty sigh and a familiar-sounding intake of breath. Harry could picture the little gesture that she would be making with her hands as she sought to calm herself. The two certainly fought enough that he, their middle man, knew what to expect. When Hermione spoke next, it was indeed much calmer, and also very resigned. “Look, Ron, it’s been a long day and we’re both tired and hungry. Why don’t we call it a night and discuss this when our tempers are less frayed?”

 

“Hermione—“

 

“Ronald, _please_.”

 

“Fine,” Ron snapped irritably. Harry felt more than heard the stomps across the room, but the slamming of the door was especially loud in the tense silence. Harry wanted to shift uncomfortably but his body did not seem to respond to his mental commands. He didn’t even jump when Kreacher’s voice broke the atmosphere.

 

“Does Missy Granger need anything before Kreacher goes to clean up the feast?”

 

A strange feeling of pride bubbled within Harry at the respectful tone in the little house elf’s voice. This tone was a long sought achievement that Harry had more or less became resigned to never getting Kreacher to use for anyone other than himself—well, no one living at the very least. Kreacher’s respect apparently struck a chord within Hermione as well because he heard a swallowed sob that sounded like it may have contained the words “oh, Kreacher”, abet in a strangled way.

 

“Missy Granger looks like a filthy blood traitor when she cries. She mustn’t shame herself so!”

 

And there went the warm burst of feeling…but it clearly had a positive effect on Hermione because the choked sounds immediately ceased and when she next spoke, her voice was firm and strong despite the fact that it was still thick with unshed tears.

 

“I could use one of the healing potions from the kitchen, Kreacher—the bright blue one. Harry’s got to be in pain…”

 

If Kreacher made a reply, Harry didn’t hear it. A muted roaring like a rush of water filled his ears. It warmed him, but in a distant way as if he was detached from everything, which caused its own blossom of worry. As if sensing his distress, or perhaps to soothe her own, Hermione gripped his right hand tightly in both of hers. He felt the trio of hands lift until he felt something smooth and dry against his knuckles. His achy mind realized that the gesture must have been a kiss just as the warm air moved over the exposed portions of his hand. His eyes unexpectedly felt tight and itched as confusion, happiness, and sorrow swirled inside of him.

 

“Dear Goddess,” Hermione said thickly to the empty room—unless she was _really_ confused and was talking to Harry, but he somewhat doubted that theory. Hermione was never wrong, at least about the things that mattered. “I’ve never done this before—I don’t know what to say or how to say it properly. Just please let him get better—he was my first friend, you know.” Harry heard a few sniffly breaths before she continued, stronger than before. “I don’t know what You did—whether You tried to purify Voldemort’s magic, like I told Ron, or—“ There was an audible swallow and Hermione’s voice turned shaky. “Or if Harry was, _somehow_ , a Horcrux himself. As much as I hate that thought, I have a feeling that it is true. Thank you—for Harry finding the purification ritual. Everything I’ve found before that had said that items needed to be destroyed—‘damaged beyond repair’ was the phrase. I can’t—“ Moisture spilled over his clutched fingers. Harry had never longed to move so much as he did in that moment—to offer some form of comfort to his friend who was obviously hurting from something. “Life without Harry would probably be safer, but emptier as well. There’s this…this _energy_ that he brings to everything he does. He’s my best friend, my partner in crime—he makes me a better person just by being who he is. I need him in my life. So, yeah, thanks for purifying him and please let him get better. I don’t know how to end this…um, amen?”

 

Darkness began to pull him under, but unlike before there was a calming aspect to the warmth that cocooned him in a way that reminded him of Mrs. Weasley’s hugs…or Hermione’s hands clenched tight around his. Something within him shifted and turned like a yogi changing stances. It was important, he knew, but he was too tired and too relaxed to focus on analyzing it.

 

 

 

When Harry next came out of the darkness, the pain was gone. There was a stiff feeling in its place, as if he had been in the same position too long after a strenuous activity. He stretched before he really thought about it and had to bite back a groan as his muscles protested the motion and threatened to seize up. Instantly, he felt a hand in his right one and another one brushing his hair away from his face soothingly.

 

“Harry,” breathed Hermione. Harry sighed and blearily opened his eyes. Hermione’s face hovered above his, close enough that he could clearly make out her relieved brownish-gold eyes though his eyes crossed shortly afterwards. He opened his mouth to say something and let out a strangled croak. He swallowed and tried again.

 

“Hermione,” he managed with a thick, furry-feeling tongue. Harry floundered for a moment before he managed to get his arms under him and pushed. Hermione moved backwards out of his way, but assisted in helping him set up. She held a glass tumbler with a straw for him while he drank what he would have told anyone listening was the best tasting water he had ever had. He drained the cup with a rude-sounding slurping noise and grinned at the scrunching of her nose. “So what happened after I passed out? How much of a git has Ron been?”

 

“Only you, Harry, can wake up after three days and be more concerned about Ron’s attitude than whether or not the ritual that made you unconscious in the first place worked,” Hermione huffed. Harry winked at her. Her response somewhat shocked him. She launched herself across the little space separating, her arms wrapping themselves around his shoulders and pulling him tight against her chest. She was speaking, too fast and breathless to understand more than one word in half a dozen. Belatedly and unsure of what to do, he pulled her into his lap like he had once seen Fred do to Ginny in the common room after a particularly nasty rumor was spread about her. Harry rubbed Hermione’s back in small circles just to have something to do with his hands. Whatever he was doing seemed to be working as Hermione’s frantic words seemed to be slowing enough that he could actually make out the gist of what she was saying. He focused on calming her down to hide the fact that he was undecided between laughter and anger.

 

“Kreacher did _what_ ,” Harry finally decided to ask. Hermione had shifted to where she actually sitting beside him on the bed with her legs draped over his. Her arms had released their near-stranglehold and lowered to his chest. Harry made sure to keep up the backrub. He didn’t think he could handle a truly distraught Hermione. His skills in dealing with upset females were woefully stunted, after all.

 

“Locked him in his room and refuses to let him out for anything,” Hermione said in a quick burst as if the words were under pressure. She sounded as mixed in her response as Harry was himself. “Nothing I said would get through to him! Kreacher just won’t listen to me; just keeps telling me that you would deal with it when you woke up.”

 

“And what set him off?”

 

“Um, well, we were fighting a lot—he was still against the ritual and thinks that we were stupid for doing it in the first place—he said something about how you deserved it—getting hurt, I mean,” Hermione clarified all in one breath. Harry had the odd thought that this was really impressive. “And Kreacher heard and that was when he banished Ron to his room and locked him in. So he’s been in there for two days now. Kreacher says that he’s been ‘taking care’ of him, but you know Kreacher—that could mean _anything_. I haven’t heard from Ron since I made an offhand comment about wishing he’d be quiet yesterday afternoon. Harry, I’m really worried. You don’t think that Kreacher would actually hurt him, do you?”

 

“No, I don’t,” Harry reassured her. He patted her on the back one final time before disentangling himself from her and turning so that his back was to her, and his legs were over the edge of the bed. In a firm and even voice, he called out the house elf’s name. The little being appeared instantly, his large yellow eyes staring calmly at Harry without a trace of remorse within them. Harry knew, just as he knew that Dobby would have been giddy with excitement, that Kreacher was not sorry about how he treated Ron and felt no need to either apologize for his behavior or punish himself. They looked at each other for a long moment, a master and a servant locked in silent but expressive communication. Then Harry spoke, each word causing a look of confusion to grow upon Kreacher’s face. “You know that I’m not mad at you, but what you did _was_ wrong, Kreacher. You will apologize to Ron after we go let him out.”

 

“If Master thinks that would best,” Kreacher replied carefully. His bat-like ears flapped once in agitation. He balled his little hands into fists at his sides as if he really just wanted to hit something at the thought of apologizing to his captive.

 

 _‘As long as he doesn’t argue,’_ Harry thought as he stood on shaky legs. He noted in some corner of his mind that he had been dressed somewhere along the line in pajama pants and a worn tee shirt that used to be Dudley’s about four years ago so that it was close to fitting. Harry looked back at Hermione who was now sitting cross-legged on the bed. When he asked his question, he was only half joking.

 

“So, ready to face the Weasley wrath?”

 

Hermione bit her bottom lip, but nodded. He noticed that she looked really worn and her hair, which he hadn’t seen this frizzy since fourth year, looked as if she had ran her hands through it too many times without a good brushing. He wondered if she had stayed beside him the entire time he was unconscious. Harry shot a querulous look at Kreacher who promptly nodded as if he had voiced a question aloud. Perhaps in house elf magic, he had. Harry held out a hand to help her stand up, which Hermione took with a grateful expression.

 

Without further ado, the pair made their way down the stairs to the second floor and the room where Ron was staying. It took Harry ordering him, but Kreacher released the enchantment sealing the door. The door slid open with a near-silent click. Hermione gave Harry’s hand a squeeze—funny, he hadn’t noticed that they were still holding hands—before letting go and pushing the door wider to enter the darkened room.

 

“Ron?”

 

The wizard in question didn’t answer, but remained prone on his bed and glaring at the ceiling. The only sign that he made of hearing Hermione’s softly voiced question was a tightening of his eyes. Harry had a bad feeling about this. Ron was not quiet when he was angry. He blew up, and then it was over. The last time that Harry had seen him with this expression of angry resolve was when Ron had turned his back on him during the Triwizard Tournament. The realization sat like a stone in the pit of Harry’s gut. It grew to a boulder after Ron sat up and swung his legs off the bed. Without a word, the youngest Weasley son picked up a satchel sitting on the trunk at the foot of the bed. He stood facing them, stony faced and surprisingly calm.

 

“So,” Harry finally asked in the silence, “you’re leaving, then?”

 

“Harry! Ron wouldn’t leave—he knows how important this is!”

 

But Hermione looked at Ron uncertainly as if she was trying to not come to the conclusion that Harry had. Harry wanted to be angry. He wanted to rage against the idea of his first friend abandoning him once more, but somehow, it seemed like it would be just so much like Ron to do it. Harry just wished that it didn’t hurt quite so much. And he knew—he _knew—_ that his pain would be nothing compared to what Hermione would feel.

 

“Fine,” Hermione said in a huff of breath. Harry could see mixture of anger and hurt on her face and it made him sick. He longed to give her a hug and tell her that it would be alright, but knew that it wasn’t the time for that. The Gryffindor witch charged forward and shoved at Ron. “Fine! Just go, you great prat! We don’t need you!” She began to hammer on his shoulders and chest with her fists as if attempting to beat sense into him. Her voice, choked and pleading, had risen in her anger. “DO YOU HEAR ME? WE DON’T NEED YOU! SO JUST LEAVE ALREADY!”

 

Harry couldn’t stand by any longer. He went forward and pulled the now sobbing woman away from Ron, who at least had the good grace to look sheepish. Hermione went limp in his arms and they sank together into a kneeling position. Ron stepped around them on his way out the door. Harry watched his retreat with a sorrowful resignation. When Ron looked back in the threshold, their eyes locked for a moment. Ron touched the doorframe with one hand and looked lost. Harry could see the waver and felt heartened by it, a moment of foolish hope that swelled within him.

 

“Fine,” Ron agreed and that hope died a quiet death as Ron softly punched the frame before continuing through the door. Harry listened to his retreating footsteps, hoping against all evidence that it was not over, that Ron would turn around and say that he was sorry. Like an exclamation point, the front door slamming punctate the entire thing. Harry held Hermione tighter and focused on whispering useless platitudes into her hair.

 

It was the end of something and Harry didn’t want to think about it or how he was seriously contemplating not taking Ron back this time. It was too much, too much for any seventeen-year-old to handle. But Ron was lucky. He could just walk out if he wanted. Harry didn’t have that option. Oh, no, Harry was the _Chosen One_. Harry was stuck between predestined duty to a world that couldn’t commit to a feeling for him and sheer cowardice.

 

At least he wasn’t alone.

 

 -= LP =-

 

November slipped by uneventfully. Hermione and Harry spoke of many things, but one topic was noticeably left out: Ron’s continued absence. Harry continued to study the Black grimoire and the books from the attic, in between “homework” from Hermione. Cautiously, he began to test out certain finds while Hermione was asleep, finding out what felt right and what did the most damage. Hermione was pouring over the little grimoire found amongst the books, looking up things in the rune books amongst the attic books. Harry caught her occasionally giving him odd looks, but he didn’t question her.

 

Finally, the walls started to seem more imprisoning than sheltering and Harry had more than enough of playing it safe. He needed out, even if it were only for an afternoon. He went in search of his companion, finding her in the library staring at a thick tome about blood wards as if shocked at what she found.

 

“Fish and chips,” Harry announced. Hermione looked at him as if she was seeing him for the first time. Emerald eyes met toffee and Harry’s focus changed instantly. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I know how you survived,” Hermione whispered quietly. Her eyes shone, but Harry couldn’t tell if it were tears or intellectual delight. She continued in a low, furiously-paced whisper. “She figured out how to do the impossible—she _must_ have. I don’t know how she got the power for the array—no…I know how. She did it in ritual space and called upon the Goddess. That would certainly lend the power needed. We both felt that. Oh, Harry, I think I know when she did it as well. You must not have gotten a hold of Sirius’ wand. It had to be a ritual that drained more than she had planned… Don’t you _see,_ Harry? It had to be a secret from everyone. No one could have known; she couldn’t risk it getting out.”

 

“Hermione, slow down,” Harry interrupted, uncomfortable at the thoughts that were spilling out of his best mate’s lips. “What are you talking about?”

 

“The array on your back!”

 

Hermione had mentioned it before, the strange tattoo that covered his back that was revealed after the cleansing charm. Harry had brushed it off, to be perfectly honest. It wasn’t that important to him currently. There would be time later to study it, time after Voldemort was defeated, after—just _after_ , if there was an after. Hermione, obviously, hadn’t agreed with him and had continued her research. He should have guessed from all the rune books.

 

“Alright,” Harry declared, trying to refocus on what had caused him to search her out in the first place. “We can discuss it over fish and chips.”

 

“Kreacher can make that?”

 

“I was thinking of actually going out,” Harry said with an eye roll. Hermione bit her bottom lip and wrinkled her nose, her ‘thinking’ expression. He allowed her the time she needed to weigh the pros and cons of acquiescence to his idea. He had seen her staring out the window a few times when she had thought that she was alone. Four months in the same building was a bit much for anyone to take, even if they understood the necessity of it. Harry was confident that Hermione would agree to his proposal. Any protest that she’d offer, he was certain he could counter effectively.

 

“The guard out front?”

 

“Invisibility cloak, dear Granger.” Harry didn’t point out that without Ron, the two of them could fit easily without being seen. By the way her bottom lip trembled though, he knew that she had thought of it herself.

 

“Okay,” she agreed, “just let me get my coat and gloves.”

 

Fish and chips turned into an afternoon of shopping in the muggle world—well, what shopping they could do without going to Gringotts and getting some of Harry’s money converted. He learned that Hermione had a trust fund as well, from her great grandmother on her father’s side. She couldn’t access all of it until she was twenty-five, but the allowance from it was enough to keep her going for a while. They also learned that candles literally came in all shades, shapes, and scents when they visited a shop whose address was written in the little grimoire that Hermione was studying. Finally, Harry gave up trying to understand it all and let Hermione figure out what she wanted while he chatted with the shopkeeper about the various crystals on display.

 

“So she said it is a good starter stone and helps focus magic,” Harry was explaining to Hermione as they left the store. He held the clear quartz up to let the weak December sun shine through it. Hermione was tucking her bag into her purse, but Harry saw her indulgent smile before she looked back up at him, a serious expression on her face.

 

“It does and should help with our next project,” Hermione replied. Harry cocked his head to side as they walked through the nearby park. Grimmauld Place was on the other side and down a block. They’d have to get under the cloak soon, but not quite yet. Snow had begun to fall while they were shopping and was now covering the landscape in a soft dusting. The water crystals looked like glitter in Hermione’s curly hair. Harry wished that he knew how to tell her that she looked very pretty like that.

 

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Harry said instead and giving himself a mental shake. “What’s our next project?”

 

“Well, remember how I said the array offered an anchor to your mother’s protection? There’s a couple of rune phrases that would suggest that that it can be used offensively— _consciously_ , Harry, not incidentally like what you did with Professor Quirrell.”

 

“So…you’re saying that I could point,” he said and gestured with the hand holding the crystal point, “and blast something?”

 

“Well,” Hermione huffed as if the paraphrasing offended her (which when he thought about it, it just might), “I wouldn’t use those words, but essentially, yes. You should be able to blast something.”

 

“That could be useful—Resolves the whole wand issue kind of neatly, don’t you think?”

 

“We still don’t know how reliable it’s going to be,” Hermione reminded him. Harry nodded and pointed the little rock at a nearby bench. He scrunched up his face in concentration, trying to force his magic through the quartz like he would his wand. After a few minutes in which all he achieved was a headache behind his eyes, he glanced at Hermione with a skeptical expression. She gave him an encouraging smile and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know how to access it, Harry.”

 

“If I’m going to fight Voldemort with it, I think I’m going to need a _lot_ of practice,” Harry replied. He didn’t get a chance to say anything else as the tell-tale cracks of multiple people apparating filled the air. Harry barely had time to pull Hermione out of the way of a red bolt. He managed to return fire with a volley of stunners while Hermione cast a shield to cover both of them.

 

 ‘ _Six of them,’_ Harry counted in between spell volleys. Harry was careful to stick close to Hermione. These were not good odds, despite what little training that they had and all the studying they’ve done over the last few months. Somehow, that little point stayed in his off hand as he wove hexes and some of the lighter curses he had found among his studies with his wand hand. Hermione kept her shield up while she used jinxes and charms in ways that Harry was fairly certain was not their intended use. The heavy scent of magic filled the air, snuffing out the wintery smell of snow, as the group continued their battle.

 

All too soon, the two Gryffindors found themselves back to back, surrounded. Hermione brought up a more complicated shield that arched over them like an upside-down fishbowl. Harry could hear her panting from the strain of keeping it up as she returned fire on her half of Death Eaters. Harry’s worry grew as he sensed her tiring. It couldn’t end here; it just couldn’t.

 

Desperation filled him as magic began to gather just below his skin. Later, much later, he would describe the feeling as his magic preparing to burst from him. For now, he couldn’t spare a thought to explain the swelling he felt. His vision went bleary, as if he had lost his glasses. He felt unfamiliar words on his tongue, begging to be said. There came a presence just outside of his awareness, familiar yet not, and Harry felt the magic tingle through the air like lightning.

 

Then the bleariness became blackness streaked with peridot veins. He could hear screams of pain and his own voice, speaking the words that made no sense but felt right all the same. He could feel Hermione’s back pressed against his, an anchor in the fearful confusion of the moment. And the magic—oh, the _magic._ It was a beautiful feeling as the power arched through him like electricity in one of those plasma globes that his science teacher brought in one time when they were studying the phases of matter. He was strong and he was mighty. Nothing could beat him. He was _invincible._

 

“Harry,” he heard distantly after an eternity in that paradise of power. Hands touched his face and the blackness began to fade a bit, revealing Hermione’s pale face. “Come on, Harry, _focus_.”

 

“Her-Hermione,” he breathed shuddering as the magic ebbed, draining away in little spurts that made him shake. Hermione gave a relieved breath and, closing her eyes briefly, rested her forehead against his. Feeling a bit dim, he realized the hands cradling his face must belong to her. Then the smell hit him. It smelled like the time that his Aunt Petunia had forgotten about a roast in the oven, only far worse. He gagged and ripped himself away from Hermione just in time to avoid being sick on her. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the burnt bodies that surrounded them. “What,” he gasped, “happened?”

 

“Let’s get safe first,” Hermione reasoned, taking a hold of him. The squeeze of apparition made him sick again, but he had nothing to bring up and thus was left dry heaving on the front steps of Grimmauld Place, just inside the Fidelius’ protection. The front door opened and Kreacher’s large eyes peered out through the crack.

 

“Master Harry needs mint tea,” the house elf announced before popping away, presumably to fulfill the self-given order. Harry gave a sarcastic chuckle and looked at the, if possible, even whiter Hermione.

 

“Somehow, I think it might get better with practice,” Harry announced grimly. Hermione was now so pale that she looked like she might give Myrtle a run for her money. The know-it-all gave a mute nod in response. “I don’t think the crystal would change anything though.”

 

Hermione gave a short snicker as if she was trying not to laugh. Then she took a deep breath that changed into another snicker. Soon, they were both laughing hysterically. If anyone could have seen them, they would have looked like loons.

 

But they were alive and that was what mattered.

 

 -= LP =-

 

Harry stood on the threshold to the library just watching Hermione stare out the window at the cold rain. It had been raining ever since Remus’ visit last week as if the sky was mourning with them. Harry felt strangely bereft of feeling—almost as if he had been hollowed out by the information that the werewolf had brought and was now waiting as an empty vessel to be filled once more.

 

Ron was gone.

 

If truth were to be shared, Harry had been expecting it. Ron was always up for anything that would garner glory, be it adventure or Quidditch. The self-enforced exile to Grimmauld Place had affected the redhead the most. Ron was a creature of action. This Harry knew just as he knew that Hermione was now suffering despite her dry cheeks. Ron would have preferred his death to not doing anything to help a friend. Death in battle with honor was surely preferable for any Gryffindor.

 

The memory of the unanswered letter around Yule rose within Harry’s thoughts. The anger it inspired threatened to come to a boil once more. As ruthless as any Death Eater, he pushed the rage away as useless, along with unrealized hopes of reconciliation after all this was over. For one morbid moment Harry pondered the idea of meeting in the afterlife and whether it would be the same. Perhaps it was a holdover from the private funeral rite that he and Hermione had performed last night. Ironically, it had also been Ron’s eighteenth birthday.

 

Hermione closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cold window as if she had heard his thought. She had pulled her hair tightly back from her face but frizzy little curls had escaped to wave defiantly in the air like honey-colored fronds of some kind of agitated fern. There were dark smudges under her eyes that told the tale of the nights she had been spending studying that little grimoire that had been among the attic stuff.

 

That day back in August seemed a lifetime ago from all the changes that had happened in his life. The tentative faith he had found in the Black Grimoire and his mother’s grimoire had certainly centered him far more than Occulmancy lessons. While he enjoyed that feeling, Harry would be the first to admit that he still had reservations about the whole thing. On the other hand, Harry could tell that Hermione was growing more comfortable with the old traditions. That made him willing to relax into them. Her trust in authority figures was stronger than his, but so was her trust in a lot of things, strong enough to survive being betrayed. He perpetually teetered on the edge of Mad-Eye level paranoia. _Constant vigilance, indeed._

 

“I know you’re there, Harry,” Hermione said, interrupting his train of thought. Her eyes were still closed and her forehead was still against the glass, but Harry could tell—from that spot deep within him where their magic connected during ritual—that the pain she had been drowning in a moment before was back to manageable levels, at least for now. Harry left the doorway to pull out the chair tucked under the desk where Ron had done many of his assignments while he was with them. From his new position, Harry could no longer see her face, but he didn’t need to in order to read her. That spot was twirling in a little whirlpool of strength as the witch became increasingly determined over something. Finally, she turned to look at him. Her normally hazel eyes were dark with sorrow as they met his. “Harry, I found something in your mother’s grimoire.”

 

“Isn’t that what we’ve been practicing for the last three months?”

 

“Not just the offensive capabilities of her protection, Harry,” Hermione answered without even a hint of rebuke in her dry voice. “It is something else. It appears to be a summoning ritual. It looks like it can summon a fairly large group of people so long as they share a set characteristic. It has a note next to it. …It was meant for the Death Eaters.”

 

Harry stared at her for a long moment as his mind turned the words about in his head. The implications were confusing. Oh, he knew that his parents had been in the Order, so the idea that his mother was working against Death Eaters was not surprising. However, the idea of using magic in this way—everything he had read suggested that it was a bad idea, something about balance… He felt his eyes widen. The Black Grimoire was clear about the concept of culling for the purposes of maintaining status as well as the balance of power.

 

On the heels of that resolution there was a wave of betrayal as pieces connected in a way he had not thought of prior to that moment. What was his mother thinking? First there was the magic that she had building into the rune pattern on him, with its deadly capabilities. Now there was a summoning ritual designed to bring Death Eaters to a set location. He was being set up to become a murderer, and one of the conspirators to that end had been _his own mother_. Was there no one that he could trust?

 

 _‘You can trust me,’_ whispered that spot inside of him. Magic blossomed inside him like brilliant gold flowers. Its gentle perfume tickled his nose even as he felt someone cupping his cheeks. He opened his eyes, dimly aware that he didn’t remember closing them, to see Hermione’s steady gaze. That little voice inside him repeated itself even as Harry realized that it was using Hermione’s melodic tones.

 

“Of course I can,” Harry said and if his voice had a rougher edge than normal, Hermione ignored it. He tipped his head forward to bump his forehead against hers. “Of course I can.”

 

-= LP =-

 

Harry turned his face to the sky, letting the steady drizzle wash over him like a healing elixir. So much had changed in the last six months and if their crazy plan worked, it would end. Finally, after years of Voldemort being a very present shadow amidst the lives of everyone, it would be over. …And yet, Harry was not the same boy he was when Voldemort made his move and took over Wizarding Britain, making Harry Potter into Undesirable Number One. Harry blinked away moisture, a flutter of eyelids before giving in and letting his eyes close.

 

 All their planning, all their training, seemed to be useless when faced with _this_ moment in time, the moment where faith and hope were either proven true or fancies of childhood. The circle was cast now and spirits called. Dawn of the holiday approached; Beltane, the day of renewal and fertility, was about to be born. Hermione’s schedule had been relentless to get them ready by this date, but hopefully…hopefully, She would smile upon them for choosing _this_ day.

 

The stone circle they had chosen for today’s activities was one that Harry had heard about in one of their visits to the little shop across the park from Grimmauld Place. It was in a forest that Hermione had visited when she was a child called the Forest of Dean. Hermione was very thorough with the wards she had put up around it. Unfortunately, they had made a discovery that had Hermione scribbling for days and using terms that Harry could barely follow better than the average pureblood Hogwarts student: muggle repelling charms did not work on magick practitioners. The obsession that followed was a bit fascinating to watch, even if he couldn’t help much, and only ended when Lupin had shown up with his news about Ron.

 

Harry had to fight the urge to hug himself as protection against the memory of that news. Infuriating, hotheaded Ron was no longer living. Rumor had apparently reached Ron’s hiding place of Luna being held at Malfoy Manor. Ron planned and had pulled together other undesirables, mostly muggleborns who had gone into hiding rather than surrender themselves for registration and the possibility of Azkaban. The ragtag group had stormed the ancestral estate with a wrath only matched by their reckless bravery. No matter what House they had been in at Hogwarts, they had died Gryffindors. The thought that it had been the death that Ron would have preferred was a cold comfort to the pair of abandoned friends he had left behind.

 

Harry had held Hermione once more as she cried over Ron, mourning the boy he had been and the man she had seen in him. Unable to attend the public funeral, they had a private rite to mark his passing. What Ron had once called “dark magic” was used to heal Harry and Hermione’s broken hearts and wounded souls. It would have been funnily ironic had they been in the mindset to appreciate such things.

 

Ron’s death taught them both the importance of careful execution of methodical plans. That would have to do as a legacy for a life cut so short because it was the only thing the youngest Weasley son would leave behind.

 

Eostar had passed with only a simple rite as Hermione put the final touches on their plans. Lupin had joined in their planning and training after arriving in the middle of one of Harry’s drills. The fact that Harry had almost turned the werewolf into a toasted version of himself had it not been for Hermione’s deft assistance did not seem to faze Lupin in the slightest. Anything for Teddy, his wonderful son whom Lupin had declared was Harry’s godson.

 

Life renewed and spiraled onwards.

 

Harry felt more than saw the lightening that signaled the approach of the new day. He opened his eyes only to meet Hermione’s gaze across the shimmering circle that surrounded them. She nodded, an imperial little bowing of her head.

 

It was just the two of them here in the clearing, despite the fact that their movement had grown to include all of the Order of the Phoenix (the number of which had been far greater than the few who had shown up to meetings in Harry’s fifth year). Their plan called for the Order to be retaking strategic societal centers during the distraction that Harry and Hermione were going to be causing. Truly, one way or another, everything hinged upon what happened today. Either Voldemort would be vanquished or all resistance would be. Lupin had wanted to be with them when they started their distraction, but despite their best efforts these last weeks, Harry could not guarantee that he wouldn’t kill Lupin accidently. It was not a risk that either teen wanted to take, not after Ron’s death.

 

Like they had practiced, Hermione counted them into the chant that had come from the attic grimoire. They spoke in unison, words that made no sense, even after Hermione applied her prodigious translation skills. Oh, they knew what the spell _did_. It moved a named person or group through space to bring them before the caster. Part of their training the last few months had been mastering this spell. It was going to be the vehicle of their addition to the plan. With all the Death Eaters, including Voldemort, located in one easily reapable place, the Order should have no problem securing their objectives.

 

As the two teens entered the third and final repetition, Harry tried not to think about the risk they were taking. They’d have to act quickly once they had them. There must be no chance for them to scrabble away from the power Harry would be unleashing on them. The Death Eaters were truly loathsome cockroaches and would hide in whatever nook and cranny they could, only for them to respawn later on down the road like a nasty cold. Harry spared the briefest of moments as the power swelled to ask the Goddess to make them successful.

 

With one last groan, the energy crackled like a live wire before shattering, leaving a good solid hundred people in various states of dress staring disorientated at each other. The clearing was crowded with the sheer number of them. At the center, sandwiched betwixt the two Gryffindors, was the source of all the strife, Lord Voldemort himself. Harry didn’t wait for the confusion that covered the Dark Lord’s face to clear nor bothered wondering why he was not in any pain. Harry acted, even as Hermione used a slicing hex from the Black Grimoire to cut the snake Voldemort called Nagini into seven bloody strips. Harry summoned the magick.

 

“Goddess—Mother, smite them," Harry murmured as he let loose, more to give voice to his intention than because he had to anymore. Then he was swept away by the puissance, which was titanic in its might.

 

Harry wished he could say that he remembered everything after that point. But to do so would have been a lie. He was left in the end with nothing more than a series of sensations and blurry images, hushed words that whispered secrets. The magick wasn't just his, he knew. From his other times in ritual space, the Boy-Who-Lived could recognize the anchoring presence of Hermione and that overwhelming aura that accepted him in ways he could not vocalize or even put to articulation.

 

Somewhere in that moment of darkness and light, a mother held her son and whispered a series of words to him again. Around him, people died, cooked by the heat of the energy that he was channeling, and a young woman clutched her friend tight to her, murmuring words that were between a prayer and a confession. Beneath the glory of an angry Goddess, a Dark Lord fell and a world was changed.

 

Then it was _after_.

 

Exhausted, but present once more, Harry fell to his knees and was sick. Hermione held his shuddering form, rubbing small circles on his back. It was silent in the circle. Even birds were quiet and still. The drizzle continued, washing away the vomit and the blood of the battle…or manslaughter, his mind helpfully provided. Battle implied a conflict that hadn't occurred. Harry's stomach clenched at the thought and he was sick again despite having nothing but bilious foam left in him.

 

"We should let someone know," Harry finally managed to say after a period of time that could have been hours. His words were sloppily slurred as if he was drunk and his voice was scratchy from the vomiting. Some time while they had knelt there, the drizzle had become an eager rain shower and the normal forest sounds had returned. Hermione summoned her patronus—somehow without letting him go or having her usual amount of difficulty. Its pale glow caused the water droplets to shimmer in interesting colors that held Harry mesmerized enough that he missed Hermione's order to the playful otter that dashed away. Silence returned, like an old friend.

 

It was just a moment, just as it was just a moment that started it all—a single prophetic moment in an otherwise abysmal interview. It was just a moment of informing a pair of witches that their sons would be endangered due to mere words believed by a madman, given to him by a momentary lapse in judgment. There was no cheering nor did trumpets sound, though elsewhere people had already begun to gather in the street to praise a teenage boy who hadn't even completed his magical education.

 

"She loves me," Harry announced in the stillness of his moment. Speaking the words cemented the concept in his mind and soul. It made sense, finally, what Dumbledore had tried explaining before his death, how _love_ could be the power known not. Because that what was what brought about Voldemort's demise. Lily Evans Potter had loved her son enough to fight Fate and a Dark Lord to protect him, enough to dare the impossible and make the ultimate sacrifice. It didn't matter that he hadn't understood until he had had his stolen moment in betwixt her and the Goddess she had also loved. He now knew it to be true.

 

"She loves me."

 

And in the end, isn't that the true victory?

 

 -= LP =-

An End

-= LP =-

**Author's Note:**

> There is a wrap-up scene, but this tale ends here, even when the characters' story does not.


End file.
